


Bread and Circuses

by jentacular



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentacular/pseuds/jentacular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning of the Reaping, Esca goes hunting.  It is just another day, after all – he will not <i>let it</i> be more than just another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was haunting the Eagle kink meme and there was a 2011 prompt that called for an adaptation of The Hunger Games, with Marcus as Peeta, and Esca as Katniss. I had been looking for that very thing, and given that the prompt was 2011, I figured it wasn't going to magically appear in my life. I'm assuming it's okay to claim the prompt - not entirely sure how it works. 
> 
> I can't believe I've started an Eagle fanfic. All comments and criticisms gratefully accepted.

The day of the Reaping is always a quiet one. It’s as if people are afraid to say too much, as though they can somehow escape the punishment of the Capitol by keeping their heads bowed and using their lowest voices. It’s akin to the way hares freeze when they sense a fox is near. The air is heavy, creaking with tension, but most go numbly about their day, all the while hoping, _not me, not me, just pass me by, not my children, not me._

Everyone thinks - _it must be somebody, of course, but if I am quiet enough, careful enough, lucky enough, why then it may at least be somebody else. _

The morning of the Reaping, Esca goes hunting. It is just another day, after all – he will not _let it_ be more than just another day. It’s a pitiful kind of defiance, since by two o’ clock, he will be standing in the square along with everyone else. Still, it is better than nothing, than waiting and worrying and giving the Capitol ownership over his mind as well as his body. So when he wakes in the early morning, he only takes a few breaths of the thick, musty air before throwing off his blanket and shrugging on his shirt, hanging on the hook in the corner. Cottia’s goat, Pearl (a good name, Esca always thinks, since she is a perpetual irritation) ignores him, though she casts an eye at his discarded blanket, which he quickly stows away. He has no wish to sleep under a chewed blanket. Again. The goat shifts on the straw and bleats disapprovingly, then loses interest in him. Though, Esca thinks darkly, she will sense it the moment he lets his guard down. 

“This was my shed first, you know,” he tells her, as he quickly buttons his shirt. “I was here before _you_ were.”

It is true. He’d been eleven when his mother died. Five years ago, now. Hunger, everyone said, and she’d been skin stretched tight over bones at the end, but Esca remembers the – the _inwardness_ of her before she’d died, the way she’d pressed the little food they had left into his hands, no matter how much he protested. Like she’d already given up. Esca thinks now that it was half-hunger and half-heartbreak that killed her, and feels the familiar clench of angry pain in his chest.

She wasn’t the only one who’d died that year, and enough families had had a hard enough time, including Cottia’s, that if there had been a goat _then_ , well…it certainly wouldn’t be here _now_ , providing milk and cheese, and butting Esca whenever his back was turned. 

“They would have used your bones for soup – so it’s no use being all high and mighty now,” Esca mutters, as he plucks his forage bag off the hook. The goat continues to ignore him. 

He’s pulling on his boots when the shed door creaks open. 

“I knew it,” Cottia says. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re going hunting.”

She’s still in her nightdress, a long shabby thing that hangs below her knees. Esca looks at her, and remembers, the way he always does, the nine year old who had followed him around, reaching into her pockets or her schoolbag to pull out the half-burned pieces of ration bread she got from the bakery for them to share. Or sometimes a hard piece of cheese. Once or twice, when things had been very bad, she’d even brought some small lumps of lard wrapped in brown paper. He hadn’t wanted to accept, at first, but she’d been implacable, frowning at him until he’d eaten – though Esca thinks it was the fierce, hot gratitude he’d felt in his chest that kept him alive, as much as the food, or the shelter. 

But she’s fourteen now, and it hits Esca suddenly that she’s growing up. She has the same small, freckled face, but she stands straight, and her hair blazes over her shoulders and sets off her colouring. A touch of that awkward, incomplete look that still-stretching bodies have remains – but she’s growing into prettiness. It’s one of those realisations that feels portentous because of the reaping, the kind that trails fear in its wake, and it’s only the familiar ram of Pearl’s head against his thigh that brings him back to himself. He makes an irritated noise and pushes at her, and satisfied, she trots over to Cottia, who pets her absently. 

“There’ll be Peacekeepers everywhere today,” Cottia observes. The ‘stupid’ that belongs at the end of that sentence goes unsaid, but not unheard, and Esca grins.

“Well, luckily the deer don’t know that,” he says.

“You’re not going to bring back a deer today,” Cottia says flatly. Esca doesn’t answer, and she repeats, more firmly, “You’re _not_.”

Esca steps close enough to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be careful,” he promises.

Cottia scrutinises him narrowly, but nudges Pearl back, and stands aside to let him through the door. “Be back in plenty of time to change,” she says.

“Into what?” he says. It’s just another cruel trick of the Capitol – to force them all to dress up while two of their community are marked for death, as if it’s a special treat or privilege. Besides, all the clothing Esca owns (which isn’t much) is old and shabby and worn.

“Dad said you can borrow something of his,” Cottia tells him. “So come back early!” she calls as he strides away from the shed, and past the small grey house that stands beside it. 

Cottia’s parents have grown a little more tolerant of Esca over the years. He understands this, of course –in District 12, it’s hard enough to care for your own, and Esca, at eleven, was almost useless, nothing but another open mouth no-one could afford. Though, he thinks with a grim kind of pride, making his way through the almost deserted streets and toward the Meadow, at least he has not remained so. Now, he sits at the table with Cottia and her parents, because he puts the food there. They can’t approve of him wholeheartedly of course, because hunting is illegal, and if Esca is ever caught poaching from the woods that surround the district, well…it will be the last time. But no-one refuses extra meat – or coin, if Esca chooses to trade in the market instead. Of course, there are days when game is scarce, and Esca comes back with nothing…but most of the time he has something to contribute, no matter how small.

“You should keep part of it for yourself,” Cottia tells him, sometimes. “It’s not fair, you giving us so much.”

But every time she brings it up, Esca sees the half-burned pieces of bread Cottia had so cleverly thought to entreat from the bakery, and he knows that he will never be able to pay her back what he owes.

The Meadow at last, and Esca takes a deep breath before cutting across the grass to the bushes that conceal the weak spot in the fence – the slight indentation of the ground underneath that Esca can wriggle through on his belly. And then – he is on the other side of the fence, the woods before him, and it feels almost, _almost_ like being free.

Despite the fact that he liberates his bow and arrow from its usual hiding place, in truth, as he makes his way through the woods, he’s not listening for game so much as –

“Finally. I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming.” Liathan – dark-eyed and wild-haired, and the only other person besides Cottia that Esca considers a friend. Liathan is only a year older than Esca, and the only other person Esca knows who hunts in the woods. They hunt together sometimes…more often than not, lately.

“You were up early,” Esca observes, cocking his head to the side.

“Oh, you know how it is…the _excitement_ ,” Liathan says, with a mocking smile, and Esca feels the corners of his mouth barely turning up. 

“You have only one more year, after this,” Esca says. After eighteen, their names are no longer entered for the Games.

“Yes. And only two more for you.” Voice dry, Liathan continues, “And then we both get to go down into the Pit. Can you believe it?”

The Pit is the district’s name for the quarry where most of the able bodied men excavate stone for the fine buildings of the Capitol. At eighteen, you are free from the threat of the Games…but then the Pit opens up and swallows you whole. Unless, of course, you are fortunate enough to be part of the merchant class, with a ready-made trade to ply, or a business to run, the sort of thing that stays in the family, and passes down through generations, keeping you in relative ease – at least, compared to almost everyone else.

The Pit uses people up and spits them out when their backs and spirits are broken, their lungs ruined. It had taken Esca’s father first, then his brother. Esca himself is next.

His face wants to twist into a bitter smile, but he keeps his expression as blank as he can and says, “Just our good luck, I suppose.”

It’s worth it, because Liathan laughs, almost admiring. “Come on,” he says, with a curl of his fingers. They find a good place to sit, backs against a wide stone set firmly into the earth, and Liathan unpacks his bag to reveal –

“Honey cakes?” Esca can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. There are two, and they smell so good his stomach whines like a dog, begging for a taste.

“To celebrate our good luck,” Liathan tells him with a shrug, as he hands Esca his. The stone feels cool and hard against Esca’s back, while the pastry crumbles in his mouth, sweet and sticky and rich. He throws his head back, savouring the taste. 

“I’m surprised you bought these,” he says, after thoroughly chewing and swallowing, careful to wring every bit of enjoyment out of that first delicious bite.

Liathan raises an eyebrow. “Reaping Day only comes once a year.”

That isn’t what Esca means. They trade with the Aquila bakery, of course – it would be stupid not to, but Liathan’s smile sets into a smirk, voice heavy with mockery and eyes hard, whenever they do. He avoids it whenever he can.

“How much did they cost?” Esca asks, licking his fingers before allowing himself another mouthful.

“Don’t worry about that,” Liathan tells him. “I didn’t pay full price – he gave them to me for half-nothing. Feeling charitable on Reaping Day, I suppose.”

Oh. Esca stares down at the remainder of the cake in his hand.

“Come on,” Liathan nudges his arm, encouraging him to eat. “It’s not as if the old man can’t afford it.”

Ah. He’d traded with Old Aquila, then. Old Aquila doesn’t just own the bakery, he’s the mayor of the district. He’s…all right, as mayors go, at least, Esca supposes so – certainly, he could be worse. He manages the district from behind a cloud of whitening hair and mild blue eyes that nonetheless seem to miss very little. He’s not so very old, really, but he seems so. He mostly leaves everyone to get on with things – the best arrangement possible in the circumstances...though of course, it is an arrangement that could change suddenly and without warning, entirely dependent on Old Aquila’s whim. He could make it far more difficult for Esca and Liathan to hunt, for example, but he turns a blind eye because he’s as fond of meat as anyone, and on the rare occasions they find a patch of wild strawberries, he pays them a good price, and makes strawberry tarts. Cottia’s friend Dreda shared one with her once – Cottia said it was the nicest thing she’d ever tasted. 

Still, the best that can be said of Old Aquila is that they tolerate him. In a way, he’s worse than any of the merchant class, because unlike the rest, Old Aquila originally hails from the Capitol itself. Of course, he isn’t exactly in favour…after all, he is _here_ now, living a run down, poor district instead of the glittering Capitol. But even the Capitol cast-offs are treated better than the natives of District 12. Old Aquila’d been made mayor, hadn’t he? Even after –

But that’s the other thing, and as if by magic, Liathan said, “I wonder if he’ll put his name in, after all?”

Esca takes a long time to chew and swallow the last bite of honey cake before answering. For it isn’t Old Aquila they’re talking about any more, but his nephew. 

_Marcus_ Aquila.

“He said he will,” Esca says. Marcus Aquila is sixteen, like Esca, but unlike everyone else in District 12, is exempt from having to put his name in for the Games – because his father had been a competitor. Of course…that wouldn’t normally exempt anyone, except that Aquila’s father had been a _volunteer_. The children of volunteers don’t have to put their names in – a sort of pat on the head from the Capitol for good behaviour. Esca thinks it’s a reward that the Capitol can afford because there are, of course, very _few_ volunteers, fewer still who either _have_ children, or live long enough after volunteering to have them. He wonders, sometimes, if that’s why Aquila’s father had done it. Eighteen and proudly (most say arrogantly) marching up toward the stage to claim a place in the Games…to spare a son who hadn’t even been born at the time. 

It’s a thought that sits uneasily with Esca, considering what had happened afterwards. Because if it was true, then it didn’t make what had happened _less_ terrible, but _more_. As well as a complete waste on Aquila’s father’s part because, “He says he puts his name in every year.” Esca keeps his tone matter of fact.

Liathan laughs, low and hard. “Oh yes – because you can always trust an Aquila.”

Eighteen, and proudly marching up toward the stage, to claim a place in the Games…only to end it all raving and crawling and begging for mercy…having first stabbed his district partner while his back was turned. Everyone in District 12 knows in excruciating detail exactly what happened. Usually their district’s competitors can be relied upon to die quick, inglorious deaths early on in the Games – but Aquila gave one of their more memorable performances, and so it’s shown every year, whenever the commentators discuss District 12’s chances in the current Games.

Of course, Esca thinks, even if the Capitol never bothered to show the highlights of Aquila’s Hunger Games, _they_ wouldn’t forget – the people who work in the Pit, their children, Esca, Cottia…and of course, Liathan. It had, after all, been his uncle who Aquila had killed. One of _them_. 

It wasn’t just because he had died, Esca knows. District 12 is always expected to die. But to have been killed by someone he _knew_ , someone who knew him, as if he were _nothing_ …to watch Aquila’s father walk noiselessly toward him, and calmly raise his knife, and plunge it into his back, again and again and again, even after it was clear Liathan’s uncle was dead…it still sends a shudder of revulsion down Esca’s spine.

Those chosen from District 12 die. Sometimes they kill first. But not _one another_. _Never_ one another. They’ve only had one winner in all the years the Games have been going on…and even he hadn’t had to make that terrible choice. Perhaps it is the fact that Aquila’s father hadn’t needed to make that choice, either, that has damned him so thoroughly in everyone’s eyes. There’d still been six competitors left when Aquila’s father had raised that knife…and after everything he’d done, Aquila’s father hadn’t even made it to the final five. 

And after all that, they’d made Old Aquila mayor, as if none of it mattered at all. Of course, to the Capitol, it didn’t.

Liathan has every right to be bitter, to hate the name Aquila, but as Esca studies the hard lines of Liathan’s profile, he finds himself saying, “I think Aquila does put his name in for the Games.”

Liathan frowns at him, and Esca shrugs. “There’s no point in his saying it if it isn’t true. He has to know no-one would believe him anyway.”

“Not no-one,” Liathan murmurs, and the words feel like a dig in Esca’s ribs. 

Esca doesn’t know why he believes Marcus Aquila. Maybe it’s as simple as he says – there’s no point in Aquila lying. Everyone _expects_ an Aquila to lie. Marcus Aquila is his father’s son, after all, and so he pays for his father’s sins.

Marcus Aquila has been hated since before he was even born. In the bakery where he is apprenticed, or whenever he’s under the watchful eye of his Uncle, the townspeople mostly treat him with the same wary politeness they extend to Old Aquila. But in school, which is full of children who have not learned caution, or how to mask their hate, Aquila is shunned, and shouldered past as if he doesn’t exist. He never has anyone to partner with for sports activities, and he eats his lunch alone. This is how he is treated by the _kinder_ half of the student population. There are other, worse things, but Esca has never played any part in those. He is not kind to Aquila, but he is not cruel. Aquila has earned that from him, at least.

Not that Aquila himself has ever spoken out about any of it. Never told his uncle, or the teachers. Maybe he fears worse, if he does. Maybe it is just as Liathan says, and Aquila is every bit the coward his father was, because he never stands up for himself.

But Esca remembers how it was a week ago, waiting for their teacher and the History lesson to begin, with Kenelm making loud remarks about the Games, and _some people_ being even worse than their _fathers_ – if that could be believed – because at least _their fathers_ , treacherous murderers though they might have turned out to be, at least had the courage to _put their names forward_.

Esca can still see it – Aquila’s perfectly still, stiff back, braced against the words Kenelm was so idly flicking at him…before he had suddenly turned around, surprising everyone, and said, in a calm, clear voice, “I’m putting my name in.” For some reason, his eyes had flicked from Kenelm over to where Esca was sitting as he’d added, “I put my name in every year.” And, quite mildly, “What do you think, Kenelm? It could be the two of us, this year.”

He’d stood up for himself _then_ , and well, leaving Kenelm to splutter into silence, so Esca thinks that maybe it isn’t cowardice at all that keeps Aquila silent most of the time.

And then, of course, there is the _other thing_ – but Esca doesn’t like to think of that. He hates knowing that he is in Aquila’s debt. He tries to flick away the memory of Aquila’s face, set in fear, but not for _himself_ , the pressure of his fingers around Esca’s wrist, and the shake in his voice as he said, “Come on, quick, Esca – before they” –

But Liathan is looking at him, so thankfully he doesn’t have time to ponder this. Instead he says, “Cottia believes him too, so it’s not just me.”

“Oh, well, if _Cottia_ believes Aquila, then it’s settled,” Liathan says with a roll of his eyes. 

Esca frowns. Cottia is not in the same class as he and Aquila, of course, but she always lingers in the bakery when they go for their ration bread, watching Aquila with her sharp, curious eyes and asking questions he seems happy to answer. She’s fourteen now, and stubborn and headstrong enough that she _would_ set her eyes on Aquila as a first crush. Probably even _because_ of all the reasons that he is such a bad choice, and not in spite of them. 

The last time they’d been in the bakery, he and Cottia had been the only ones, and Cottia had leaned on the counter and asked, “Is it true, what they’re saying? That you’re going to put your name in for the Games?”

Beside her, Esca had gone hot – _he_ hadn’t told Cottia, the news had simply spread like wildfire after History class. It made him uncomfortable that Aquila might think that Cottia had got her information from Esca. As if Aquila were a frequent topic of discussion between them. _I don’t talk about you_ , Esca had thought fiercely. _I barely ever even mention your name_. Of course, he refused to say this, because in a strange way, opening his mouth to tell Aquila he didn’t matter to Esca felt oddly like saying the opposite. Let Aquila think what he liked – it shouldn’t matter to Esca.

Aquila, though, hadn’t even paused, and as he finished weighing their bread he simply said, “Yes. It’s true.”

Cottia had stared at him as he wrapped the bread and placed it on the counter. She made no move to pick it up, just continued to scrutinise him until Aquila finally raised his eyebrows and asked, quite mildly, “Well?”

“You’re stupid,” Cottia decided. She tilted her head to the side, and added, “Good looking. But stupid.”

Aquila blinked. “Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

“If it was _me_ , and the Capitol told me I didn’t have to put my name in – well, then, I wouldn’t,” Cottia said frankly. “I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”

It was odd. Aquila had smiled at her, and Cottia had been powerless to do anything but smile back. _Esca_ had even had to fight the urge for a moment. For all the reasons Aquila was a terrible choice for Cottia’s first crush, Esca could admit that he was handsome at least – tall, with dark brown hair, and broad-shouldered, strong from hefting heavy bags of flour. And he had a nice smile – somehow quiet and warm at the same time, the kind that disarmingly coaxed you into smiling back. 

But then Esca remembered that Aquila’s strong shoulders and his open face would never have cause to be twisted by the Pit, that Aquila didn’t _have to_ put his name forward, and his urge to smile vanished. 

Unnoticing of this, Aquila explained to Cottia, “That’s funny – because that’s exactly why I’m doing it. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

And then, strangely, his eyes had met Esca’s. Aquila’s eyes were green, and searching, though he doesn’t know what Aquila expected to find in his face. Had he meant Esca, when he spoke? Was Esca one of those people to whom he didn’t want to give satisfaction? Or maybe he simply wanted Esca to look impressed – that Aquila would choose to forgo his advantage and take his chance with the rest of them. Esca stared back, and kept his face blank.

Oh, he’d believed Aquila would do as he said, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still just a gesture. Aquila had kept his eyes on Esca’s, but the small smile had faded away to nothing.

He is not cruel to Aquila…but he is not kind either, because there is no point pretending that Aquila is like them. Like Esca. 

He is so lost in the memory – Aquila’s eyes and the slight dip of his head when he’d finally turned away, that he does not hear, at first, what Liathan says.

“What?” Esca has to ask.

Liathan turns to look at him, straight on, and repeats, “I’m leaving. Soon.”

“Leaving?” Esca says, frowning. “To go where?”

Liathan makes a slight gesture of his hand that encompasses the trees around them and says, “Where do you think?”

“You’re going to try and live in the woods?”

Liathan shrugs. He doesn’t blink as he tells Esca, “I can fend for myself.”

Esca shakes his head. It’s true, he supposes – Liathan is a good hunter. If anyone could strike out on their own and stand a chance, it would be him. “What about your family?”

Liathan looks away. “There’s always something,” he says, voice distant. “There will always be something to stop you from going…if you let it.” He glances at Esca again. “If you want to be _free_ , you’ll go anyway.”

Esca doesn’t know what to say. It’s true – the Capitol can treat them like this, because those in District 12 _let_ themselves be treated so. Because everyone’s got a weak spot, a reason to lie down and take it. A mother. A father. A wife. A husband. Brothers. Sisters. Friends. Children. And in the end, they will all suffer anyway, because nothing ever changes, because no-one ever has the courage to stand up to the Capitol. 

He holds Liathan’s gaze. “I’ll help – if I can.” Liathan has a mother, and a younger sister and brother. His elder brother is married…with no children yet – so he will be able to help too, surely. Esca frowns and starts to think how things might be done.

“You could come with me,” Liathan says instead.

Esca stares at him. 

“If you wanted.” Liathan stares back, intent, and Esca still doesn’t know what to say. 

Finally he manages, “I – wouldn’t have thought you’d ask me.”

“Who should I ask instead?”

Esca shrugs, irritably and tries to joke, “I don’t know. Some girl.”

“I think you’d be more useful,” Liathan says, refusing to drop it, or laugh. The offer lies between them. 

“I” – Esca says again, and it rises up, inexorably in his mind – the woods, he and Liathan, and all the dangers they would face – wild animals, poisonous plants and berries, injuries, the feral half-human experiments the Capitol may have left to roam outside the fenced-off District (there are always rumours)…and it all makes his heart seize up and almost stop with want, because the dangers seem nearly insignificant when set against the chance to finally live a life free of the Capitol.

And, at almost the same time, he finds himself saying, “Cottia” –

“There will always be something,” Liathan reminds him. And then, as he gets to his feet, “Think about it, at least?”

Esca half-nods as he rises – it means a lot for Liathan to ask him. The very least his request deserves is for Esca to take it seriously.

“But not for too long,” Liathan warns, before they part ways. “Because I’m going in the next few days.”

It makes sense, Esca thinks, as he hides his bow, and crawls back under the fence, and walks through the Meadow. It would give them the best head start, while everyone’s attention is focused on the Games. And then, afterwards…would there be that much uproar over two boys who’d run away, and were surely dead by now? To hunt in the woods is dangerous enough – but to live there? It would be easier for Old Aquila to report them dead, than to bother sending out a search party. Esca cannot imagine Old Aquila mustering up the outrage to risk good men for bad, especially not now, not after –

“ _Come on, Esca, quick, before they find_ ” – Marcus Aquila’s voice pants in his ear, and Esca shakes his head to rid himself of the memory. No, Old Aquila will not send out a search party.

And if…if it is that easy, then maybe he can work something out with Cottia. For all his talk, Liathan surely does not mean to cast his family off entirely. It might be safe enough to arrange to meet, sometimes. If Cottia slipped beyond the fence, and waited just where the woods begin…Esca could even continue to bring her food.

The thought is bright and hot in his mind – so hopeful he can hardly bear to think it, but at the same time, he cannot leave it alone either. The streets are busier, and he passes quite a few people as he makes his way back to Cottia’s house – but they are only shapes at the edge of his awareness, as he thinks about the woods, and Cottia, and Liathan, and how it is all to be managed.

Cottia and her family have already made their way to the square, but her father has left Esca a shirt and trousers, laid out on a chair in the empty kitchen. Esca changes as quickly as he can. The shirt doesn’t fit him well, and the trousers are a little long, but they are much better than anything Esca has himself. He tucks in the shirt, and rolls the waistband of the trousers, before closing the door behind him and turning his face toward the square.

He’s in plenty of time – there are enough people after him that need to be seen to that he manages to slip in unnoticed to the same row as Cottia. She darts her eyes at him and grins for a moment. Who cares where he stands while the names are drawn out? Anyway, Esca is short for his age – he can pass for fourteen. 

The stage is set, and Mayor Aquila is already sitting up there, leaning across his seat to whisper to the District 12 escort – a businesslike woman called Sassticca. This year, she wears a long, drapey sort of gown, made of fabric that twists and pleats, and brushes the ground. Her hair seems to follow the design of her gown – a tall, complicated thing constructed of many small plaits and curls, which are further draped in gold chains. It is obviously a wig – Sassticca doesn’t have that much hair. Esca doubts whether anyone in the world has that much hair.

“The Capitol has gone back to the classics,” Cottia says to him, out of the side of her mouth, then cranes her neck as a dark-haired, bearded figure approaches the stage. Guern – District 12’s only champion, hard faced and lean. He takes the third chair on the stage, and then it is two o’ clock, and time for the Reaping to begin.

Mayor Aquila reads the same speech he always does, in the same rather dry, impersonal voice. If you listen to the tone, rather than the words detailing death and destruction, it’s almost pleasant – Old Aquila reads well. It’s not too long before he’s done, gesturing toward Guern and saying, “ – and if our esteemed champion has no wish to make a speech” –

Guern doesn’t even stand, just shakes his head. As far as Esca can remember, he has never given a speech on the day of the Reaping. Old Aquila knows this too and finishes smoothly, “– then we shall move swiftly along and hand matters over to Sassticca.”

Sassticca gets to her feet and says her piece. It’s always brief, which Esca appreciates. He supposes there’s no point in grandstanding in District 12, with its single victor. A few sentences about the sanctity of the Hunger Games and the honour of being chosen to represent District 12, and she is already crossing to the glass ball in the middle of the stage. 

She reaches in, and everyone holds their breath.

Sassticca unfolds the slip of paper chosen, crosses back to the podium, looks over the crowd – and calls out the name.

Esca stares at her. He has heard wrong. Something is wrong with his ears, something is wrong with _him_ , because she did not call out –

_Cottia_.

He hears a shaky breath, and his head snaps to the right. Beside him, Cottia is pale, her freckles standing out against the ghost white of her skin. Her eyes are dazed and on her face, she is wearing the same disbelief Esca feels.

He catches hold of her wrist, and they both look down at the thin bones encircled by his fingers. “I have to go,” she says, in a voice he has never heard her use before. And, a little firmer, “You have to let go, Esca.”

He can’t. But she simply reaches out and pulls his hand away. There’s no strength in his fingers. And moving jerkily, she passes him, making her way down the path that leads to the stage.

They won’t let him see her, Esca thinks. Before they leave for the Capitol, the tributes are allowed a last visit from their family. But he’s not family, and Cottia’s mother and father won’t want to sacrifice even one of the last precious minutes with their daughter to – whatever Esca is to them.

He’s moving, just like that, pushing past people and following in Cottia’s footsteps. His mother. His father. His brother.

_No_.

He takes two more strides, and grabs Cottia’s arm, turning her around and halting her a few paces from the stage.

The Capitol has taken them all – but it will not take Cottia. He will not _allow_ the Capitol to take her, too. There are Peacekeepers stationed all around the square, and he can see some moving toward them, obviously fearing a disturbance in the orderly selection of children to be murdered, so he spits out, quick and fierce, “ _I’ll go_.” 

He glances around, not sure of who to appeal to. He catches the Mayor’s impenetrable gaze, Sassticca’s slightly open mouth, Cottia’s shocked face. “Instead of her.” 

He looks around again, and just to be perfectly clear, so that no-one can take Cottia, he says, clearly, as loudly as Aquila’s mad father had, “ _I volunteer_.”

“Esca – _no_ ,” Cottia whispers in horror. Esca tries pull his mouth into a smile to reassure her, but she begins to shake her head and her blunt nails dig into his arms, as she repeats, growing louder and louder, “No! NO – _you can’t_ , ESCA, you CAN’T,” –

It’s almost a relief when she’s pulled away from him by two Peacekeepers. Her mother and father will be waiting for her. She’ll be okay. 

He faces forward again, and the Mayor nods toward the stage. Old Aquila looks almost sympathetic. Esca concentrates on climbing up the stairs. The cuffs of his trousers are dragging on the ground again, and it’s suddenly very important to him that he not trip and fall flat on his face in front of all these people. In front of the watching Capitol eyes.

“How wonderful,” Sassticca says, sounding thrown, “to see someone from this District reach out and take this opportunity with both hands.” The folds of her long dress hide it when she reaches out to squeeze his palm. Esca rips his hand away immediately. What good is kindness to him now?

The smile she’s wearing hardly falters, as she asks him whether he has anything he would like to say.

“Last words, you mean?” Esca says bluntly. “No. I think I’ll save them.”

And he stands stonefaced, chin tilted up and eyes fixed on a point above the crowd. He doesn’t want to see anyone’s face. He grits his teeth and waits for it to be over.

Sassticca crosses to the glass ball again, but Esca doesn’t turn to watch her. He won’t give one more moment of entertainment to the Capitol than he has to.

He forgets this, though, when Sassticca hesitates. Sassticca is always professional and workmanlike, the best sort of district escort, and she never hesitates before she reads out the names. So when she pauses, Esca looks at her. It’s only for a moment, a slight hitch in the smooth running of things as Sassticca presses her lips together before continuing.

It makes dread rise up in Esca though, because why would she pause? What reason would Sassticca have to pause…that is…unless…

She looks up and reads the name to the waiting crowd.

_Marcus Aquila._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented/kudos-ed/read :)

Esca paces the room in the Justice Building. His body keeps moving – it seems as though it can’t stop, taking slow steps from corner to corner of this thickly carpeted cage, then wandering back to circle the couch in the middle of the room. As he does so, Esca catches glimpses of his own feet, his hands, and feels a kind of detached wonder every time – it’s like watching a chicken after its head has been cut off. Esca is already dead, but his body is too stupid to realise this.

It’s quiet, the silence hanging heavy as the velvet curtains over the window. Esca has never been inside the Justice Building before. Of course, he has never been a Tribute before either. He turns again, hand reaching out to brush against the wooden door, fingers coming up to touch the round knob. There are Peacekeepers outside, he is sure. He moves away.

Marcus Aquila is here too, in some other room in the Justice Building. Perhaps he is aimlessly pacing too, or maybe sitting on the couch, head down. He could be on the other side of the wall that Esca is looking at right now. Esca immediately averts his gaze.

The door opens – and it’s Cottia and her mother. Esca’s mouth jerks – almost a smile. He will get to say goodbye after all. Cottia’s eyes are red and swollen, and she is blinking fast, even now. He is surprised then that it is Valeria who steps forward first, arms coming around his shoulders to enfold him into an awkward embrace. Startled, he stays still, hands by his side - because this is a thing that has never happened before. But when Valeria pulls away, she isn’t offended. Instead her eyes brim with gratitude. It’s awkward to have her look at him so – Esca did not volunteer for her. 

“The clothes – I won’t be able to change,” he says, mostly to see Valeria’s shining expression replaced with more familiar disapproval. It is true, of course – after the goodbyes are said, Tributes are then taken to board the train for the Capitol. Cottia’s father will never see his clothes again.

“Don’t worry about that,” Valeria hastens to reassure him. “That doesn’t matter.” But Esca’s hopes are not fulfilled – the gratitude dims, but only because it is mixed with pity now. 

“You’re going to come back.” Cottia’s voice is surprisingly steady. 

“Cottia” – Esca begins, though he has no clear idea of what he will say, but she interrupts, mouth in a hard line as she says again, “You’re _going_ to come back – or I’ll _never_ forgive you.” 

He has to smile, a real one this time, even though it feels crooked on his face. Cottia’s stubbornness is such that she will even stand against the Capitol, not requesting but _demanding_ Esca’s safe return. As though she can make it so through sheer force of will. And Esca thinks - _this_ is why. _This_ is worth preserving, at any cost. 

She stares at him for a moment, taking him in, while he does the same – before she flings herself at him in an embrace so fierce it feels imprinted on his bones. “Promise me,” she says into his ear. “ _Promise_ me, Esca.”

“I promise,” he says – and it’s not a lie. He may not be able to win, but he was always going to fight. It’s just how Esca was made. He’s dead already, but he will keep moving until his body finally realises this and falls down. Over Cottia’s shoulder, Valeria nods at him, in secret reassurance that Esca doesn’t need. He knows it will be fine, once Cottia believes he has given it his all. 

After they leave, Esca returns to pacing, and waiting. It cannot be long now, and when the door opens again, he fully expects it to be a Peacekeeper. So fully, that it takes a moment for his eyes to understand that the Mayor is standing before him. 

His first thought is that Mayor Aquila has mistaken the room – been directed to the wrong place. But instead of excusing himself and leaving, Old Aquila wanders over to the window, pulling back one of the velvet curtains and peering out, before finally returning to perch on one of the hardbacked chairs. 

The seconds drip past in silence, and Esca can feel himself tensing, even as he meets Old Aquila’s eyes and waits. Old Aquila studies him for long moments with an unreadable face, before saying, “Aren’t you going to sit?”

He doesn’t seem to notice Esca’s hands, clenching into fists at his sides. But when he makes no move to follow the suggestion, Old Aquila nods to himself, as if confirming something. He doesn’t seem discomfited by the silence, by Esca’s lack of response. Esca in turn keeps his chin tipped up, and stares back. He will not be the one to break.

Finally, Old Aquila sighs, a small thing, but it seems to release something deep within him. His shoulders drop slightly, his hands hang between his knees. He looks like an old man now, in a way he never did before, even though his eyes are still blue and keen on Esca’s face.

“You know, I would have wished you luck under other circumstances,” he says finally. “It was – a brave gesture, and worthy of…” He shakes his head, before repeating, “I would have wished you luck.”

Esca nods once. He understands – though he still doesn’t know why the man is here. He never expected Mayor Aquila to cheer for him.

Old Aquila gets to his feet then, and Esca thinks he is leaving – but instead, he comes even closer, eyes locked on Esca’s, somehow even more intent, though Esca would have believed that impossible.

“He’s a good boy, my nephew. _Marcus_ ,” Old Aquila says, and Esca can feel his face working though he wills it to be still. “Remember that – no matter what happens.”

And with one final heavy stare, Old Aquila turns and leaves. Esca does sit then, sinking onto the soft couch. He doesn’t know what Old Aquila meant – whether his words were a warning or an entreaty, or some mixture of both. He doesn’t want to know, either, and wouldn’t ask Old Aquila, even if he could. He takes a breath, and attempts to scrub it from his mind. In a competition like the Hunger Games, what does _goodness_ matter? It’s of no concern to Esca, he tells himself.

It is like this that his final visitor finds him. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Liathan,” he says and, “You came.” He is surprised, though he doesn’t know why he should be. Perhaps because he hadn’t truly considered anything past that moment when he pulled Cottia back and took her place. Esca knows the ultimate end of his actions, of course…but not the finer details on the road to that ultimate end. 

“Nothing better to do,” Liathan says, and the determined levity of his words make Esca feel almost normal. Liathan sits opposite him, in the same hardbacked chair Old Aquila had been sitting in moments before.

It’s hard to know what to say – the small things seem pointless next to the looming reality of the Games. At the same time, while he and Liathan are close, they have never been the sort of friends who lay out in words the dark secret things inside them. 

Strangely, enough of this awkwardness remains that the air stretches taut between them, until finally, Liathan asks, “Was it worth it?” He is clearly angry, in spite of the way he tosses the words out, like they mean no more than an idle musing on the weather. He raises his eyebrows in expectation of an answer.

It’s misplaced frustration, Esca knows. The Capitol is faceless, removed, and impossible to lash out at. Impossible to actually _hurt_ , the way the people of District 12 can be hurt. The way _Liathan_ is hurt, right now.

“I had to,” Esca tells him, not gently. Looking at the tense lines of Liathan’s face, he wants to say, _‘I would have gone with you. I had decided already, and I would have gone with you.’_ But that seems too distant now – like a thing that had happened to Esca years before, instead of only hours ago. He doubts it would give Liathan true comfort anyway. So instead he says, “You would have done the same.” 

What Esca has chosen…it might be a waste, but he refuses to let anyone deem it a _mistake_. Not even Liathan, whom he considers a friend.

“Maybe,” Liathan says, looking away. His gaze returns though, as he adds, “For my own sister.”

But even that holds a sting, underlining as it does, that Cottia is _not_ Esca’s sister.

“It’s done now,” Esca says, and Liathan must read the warning on his face, because he only agrees, “Yes. It is.” Then, in a very different tone, “I brought you your token.”

Each Tribute is allowed to bring a memento into the ring. Perhaps the Capitol thinks a reminder of home will make them fight better. People pick jewellery, mostly – small things, easily worn or carried.

But Liathan bends forward, pulling up the cuff of his trousers. Strapped to his shin is –

“My father’s knife,” Esca says, almost to himself, as he reaches out. 

“I thought you might want it,” Liathan says. Esca can’t help but stare down at it, turn it over between his hands. He keeps it in the hiding place in the woods, alongside his bow. It’s the last thing of his father’s that he has. 

It was Esca’s father who taught him to hunt, and every time Esca uses his knife, it always makes him feel –

“They won’t let me keep this.” It hurts to say. But tokens are always sentimental, never practical – nothing of actual use in the games. Esca’s knife is clearly a cheat.

“No harm in trying,” Liathan shrugs. Esca knows he should, but he can’t bring himself to hand it back. “And,” Liathan says, very still, “There’s nothing that says you have to use it in the _Games_ , either.”

Esca’s breath stops as he realises Liathan’s meaning. It happens, sometimes. There are twenty-four Tributes every year, after all…and only one winner. Death by your own hand saves time, if nothing else…and it’s almost guaranteed to be less painful than whatever awaits you in the Games. And Esca admits there’s a hard, bitter satisfaction to be had at the thought of denying the Capitol the amusement of his death. It’s not unheard of, though it doesn’t happen as often as one would think, since –

“They’d punish the District if I did,” Esca says. The Capitol could increase taxes, or increase the demands on the already strained workers in the Pit. Certainly, they would send more Peacekeepers – and that would automatically mean more punishments, more public whippings. Esca presses his lips together. And of course, what’s to say that the Capitol wouldn’t call for actual executions to balance the scale for Esca’s defiance? It’s not as if those in the Capitol are famed for their _restraint_.

He does offer the knife then, but Liathan refuses to accept it. “Keep it,” he says. “Even if you don’t use it – at least you’ll have the _choice_.”

In that moment, it doesn’t matter that so many words lie unsaid between them…those words are unnecessary, in the end. Esca looks at Liathan - Liathan who even when faced with retribution that would cost not just him but the entire District, would still give Esca the _choice_ …and the understanding between them is fierce and entire. 

Even when Liathan breaks their silence to say, “It won’t change anything, you know. What you’ve done,” it lacks his earlier anger. “There’ll be another Hunger Games next year, the same as always…and there’s no guarantee that Cottia won’t be chosen again.”

It’s a simple, painful truth – as is the fact that this knowledge makes no difference to Esca. If he knew without doubt that Cottia’s name would be picked next year…he would still have pulled her back today. He would still have climbed the steps to the stage. He would still have volunteered.

As he straps the knife to his leg, he wonders, absently, if Liathan is disappointed in him. Disappointed that Esca would play along with the Capitol under any circumstances at all. Disappointed that he turned out to have a weak spot, just like everyone else in District 12. But then again, perhaps the ruthless bravery that freedom requires is impossible – even for Liathan, who says, “Well, don’t expect me to volunteer for her, if it happens. But…I’ll try to help. If I can. If she needs it.”

Esca just has time to say, “Thank you,” before the Peacekeepers enter. His time is up – and abruptly he is being pulled to his feet, pushed toward the door. Liathan manages to grasp his arm, ignoring the warnings of the Peacekeepers. And before they pry him off, he manages to say in a low, urgent voice, dark eyes locked on Esca’s, “Esca – _Esca_ , listen to me. _Listen_. Whatever you do - _don’t turn your back on Aquila_.”

And then, Esca is being thrust through the door, marched out of the building – toward the train station, and the Capitol, and away from everything he knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who commented and kudosed and read :)

The train to the Capitol is both fast and luxurious, and Esca’s compartment contains a bathroom as well as a large bedroom. He has hot water at the turn of a tap, a bed with a mattress that lushly cradles his weight, and a closet filled with clothes. Esca thinks of his small, musty shed, filled with scratchy straw, and shared with Pearl. After he showers, he changes back into Cottia’s father’s clothes. 

Sassticca presses her lips together, but says nothing when he appears for supper. Marcus Aquila sits in a seat next to the window. _He_ has changed, Esca notices. In District 12, his clothes have always been better than almost everyone else’s – he is, after all, the Mayor’s nephew. But even though the new outfit he has chosen is simple, far from the trademark ostentation of the Capitol, the fine materials make his other clothes seem shabby in retrospect.

Aquila’s eyes also flick to Esca when he enters, though unlike Sassticca (who is even now clucking under her breath), his face is unreadable as he takes Esca in. His eyes are very green, standing out against the muted colours of his clothes. His dark hair is still slightly damp. Esca wonders what Aquila thinks of him, in Cottia’s father’s limp shirt and too-long trousers. But he immediately discards the thought, dropping it as though it is a too-hot coal that burns his fingers. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks of Esca. Sassticca sits opposite Aquila, and Esca slips in next to her, as far away from Aquila as can be managed. 

And then… _then_ there is _food_ – brought in and whisked away by the servers, like an edible parade. There’s a carrot soup to begin, and Esca enjoys every rich, spiced mouthful, slipping down his throat to settle warm in his belly. After that, there are slices of tender lamb arranged artfully on a bed of lettuce dotted with small peas and tomatoes, while a mountain of hot, fluffy potato waits on the side of the plate. Although his stomach is practically creaking in warning by now, Esca samples a sharp cheese before taking a slice of apple, and the combination is so refreshing he forces himself to eat another piece of each. A towering chocolate monstrosity sits in the middle of the table – the final test. 

Sassticca keeps up a conversation the whole way through the meal, discussing how the dishes were made, the presentation, the current favoured confections of the Capitol… It is a one sided discussion, though she does not seem to notice – Esca stuffs his mouth again and again, almost before he’s finished swallowing the previous bite, and while Aquila can’t hope to approach the same kind of speed, he eats with a determined kind of thoughtfulness that indicates that he too has never experienced food on this scale.

Guern only joins them toward the end of the meal, when Esca’s fork has finally begun to slow. He still picks at the half-eaten piece of cake left on his plate. Even though his stomach feels tight, twinging in protest at his diet’s sudden turn for the lavish, it feels wrong to leave food uneaten. Ungrateful. _Wasteful_. Instead of waiting for the servers, Guern takes a plate and helps himself – a slice of lamb, a bread roll, cheese, a few grapes – managing to distil the sumptuous excess into something simple.

District 12’s only Victor is a lean man, bearded, with long hair and a face defined by the hard lines of his mouth and nose. When he sits, he casts his eyes between Esca and Aquila, before saying, “Well.”

Esca waits, but Guern then turns his attention to his plate, using a knife to cut it into halves. Apparently, this is all he means to say. Even for Guern the Taciturn, who is one of the least popular Victors the Capitol has ever had, this seems – lacking.

“Is that it?” Esca finds himself demanding. Guern takes his time, waiting until his roll has been severed into halves before answering, “I hope you’re not expecting a speech. I never give those,” his sharp eyes pin Esca’s, “- and I don’t intend to start now.”

“I’m not asking for a _speech_ ,” Esca says. He is overfull and nauseated, and in turn this makes him angry. 

“Good. I’m here, you’re both here – what more needs to be said?” Guern dips his knife in the butter.

_This_ man is to be Esca’s mentor. When he is in the ring, Guern is to be his contact with the outside world, soliciting sponsors for gifts that might benefit Esca. Oh yes, Esca can already tell how well that will go. He looks away, anger making the mass of food churn in his stomach still more.

“You could always give us some advice,” Aquila says suddenly. “Help us to win.”

Despite the fact that Aquila is backing him, Esca frowns at his choice of words, words that link he and Aquila together into an us. Aquila speaks as though they are a team, as though they are allies instead of competitors. There is not, will not, and can be no ‘us’ in a contest such as the Hunger Games. It’s a thoughtless slip of the tongue, no more, but it makes Esca uneasy.

Guern scrapes the butter onto his bread. “No-one wins the Hunger Games.”

“ _Guern_ ,” Sassticca says. Her eyes dart around the carriage, but the servers are gone. 

Guern continues buttering his bread as if she hadn’t said anything, in precise little motions. Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Some survive it, but that’s not the same thing as winning.”

“We don’t have to do this now,” Sassticca says. “There’ll be plenty of time for all this later.” Her tone is firm, almost a warning. But then she looks at Aquila and says, “Marcus…” and her strong, no-nonsense voice trails into nothingness.

Esca abruptly remembers that whenever Sassticca comes to District 12, she is never far from the Mayor’s side. And she has been coming to District 12 for a long time. Perhaps the look on her face is only sorrow for the Mayor – but Esca thinks it belongs mostly to Aquila.

“It’s alright, Sassticca,” Aquila tells her. He smiles a little as if he means to comfort her, though it’s rather ghostly. “It’s – better to know.” 

“Well, if you insist,” Guern says, turning his head and taking Aquila in then, before coolly flicking his eyes over to Esca and subjecting him to the same thorough examination. Esca stares him down. 

Guern returns to his bread roll, and begins buttering the other half as he speaks. “The first thing you need to know,” _scrape, scrape, scrape_ , “is that there aren’t going to be any miracles. So don’t expect them. In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve managed to save exactly one person from the Arena – and you’re looking at him.” He glances up at them. 

The Victors of the Hunger Games always serve as mentors to the new Tributes. Some Districts – particularly District 1 and 2, have so many Victors that they can rotate them, change them every year or so. District 12 has only Guern. No miracles indeed.

“You still know what it’s like,” Aquila insists. “So tell us, when we get into the Arena, how do we” –

He has turned toward Guern, and there is a determination to his profile that makes Esca frown. Aquila says _‘us’_ …but Aquila is already planning for the Arena. Liathan’s last words brush against Esca’s ear.

“The Arena is different every year,” Guern tells Aquila, and just as the tension in his body begins to slump into disappointment, Guern adds, “but it’s always the same.” His eyes include Esca as he says, “You can talk about weapons, or skills, or strategies – and those things are important, but not as important as the question everyone in the Arena has to ask, over and over.”

“And what’s that?” Esca knows it’s a trap, a trick of some sort from the way Guern pauses and waits…but he can’t stop himself from asking.

“ _‘Him – or me_?’” The words fall stark in the carriage, and Esca can hear Sassticca’s sharp indrawn breath. “I don’t think this is appropriate dinner table conversation,” she says tightly.

Guern doesn’t seem to notice, placing a piece of lamb atop his bread and taking a bite. He chews, swallows, continues, “It’s not pretty, or noble – but it’s what it all comes down to, in the end. And when it’s over, you live with the answer.” He wipes his mouth. “Or not, as the case may be.”

“It’s not quite that simple. Or so _grim_ ,” Sassticca says, obviously deciding to try a different tack, to fight Guern at his own game. “There are always sponsors. If you can get the attention of the right sort of person, during the opening ceremonies, or the interviews…well, who knows what might happen in the Arena? The right gift, at the right time…” she makes an expansive, hopeful gesture with her hands, “And trust me, you _will_ get sponsors – both of you,” she adds, belatedly including Esca. He knows she means her soft words for Aquila though, as she says, “With the right kind of handling, they’ll be lining up to help you.”

It sounds mostly as if Sassticca is trying to convince herself. District 12 are rarely major players in the Games – more background scenery that bleeds – and they almost never receive gifts from the influential sponsors who pore over the Tribute scores, who place exorbitant bets on the winner, and then spend yet more money trying to prove themselves right. 

Still, Aquila is strong, and good-looking – and the good-looking Tributes always seem to attract more sponsors. Aquila might be able to make someone overlook the humbleness of his home District, and invest some money in him. 

“You’ve got a good story, I’ll give you that,” Guern says. “Both of you do. That’ll be worth something, at least.”

“What do you mean?” Esca asks, suspicious.

Guern shrugs. “Well, we’ve got the volunteer of District 12, selflessly sacrificing himself for – his sister? Friend? First love?”

Esca scowls at the question, and the way Guern lets the silence stretch, demanding an answer. “ _Cottia_ ,” he says, finally. “My friend.”

He sees movement in the corner of his eye – Aquila shifting in his seat. He wonders whether Cottia’s crush had been obvious to Aquila, whether (a new and strange thought) Aquila had returned her feelings in kind. Handsome as he is, it’s not as if he was swimming in offers, and he’d always seemed pleased, happy to talk to Cottia, to string out their time in the bakery, even when Esca’d been standing there, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. 

“I don’t care which it is,” Guern says bluntly, “but young love is more exciting, has a bit more suspense to it – will he come back? Will her heart be broken? You’ll find any number of softheaded fools in the Capitol who’ll root for a happily ever after. I imagine they’d respond well if you chose to play that up in your interview.”

A black kind of anger rises up in Esca, pounding in his ears, and clogging his throat, so that all he can manage is a rough, “No,” that scrapes on the way out. To share what Cottia means to him with the Capitol – it’s a disgusting thought. To parade her before all of Panem, only then to have her _dismissed_ , the richness of her folded away into a flat Princess to fit a stupid fairy-tale – like Cottia as-she-is is not _good enough_ …

“ _No_ ,” Esca says again. 

Guern cocks an eyebrow at him, but turns his attention to Aquila. “And of course, we have the son of the last, infamous volunteer – here to seek redemption?”

Across the table, Aquila goes very still.

“ _Guern – enough_ ,” Sassticca warns, but he tells her, “It’s the first question she’ll ask him in the interview, Sassticca – you know this. And it won’t be the last.” His eyes on Aquila are not unsympathetic, but he continues, “‘How does it make you feel, to know what your father did? Do you worry you might fall victim to the same madness? Do you think he would be proud of you today?’ Answer the right way, and everyone will feel sorry for you. They’ll want you to prove the naysayers wrong.”

“I don’t” – Aquila shakes his head, presses his lips together. Esca has never seen Aquila truly angry before. Even now, he seems to be pushing his feelings down deep, like the monstrous fish that might dart below a lake’s placid surface. “I’d rather not… _use_ my father like that.” 

“You’ll have to come up with something else to talk about, in that case,” Guern says.

The sound of Sassticca’s hands slapping the table makes them all jump, even Guern. Even she seems a little taken aback, and there’s a silence before she decides, “Tokens.” She flashes a challenging look at Guern. “If we _must_ talk about the Games right now, then let’s talk about tokens. Have you both decided? If not, don’t worry – I have some suggestions, and I’d be happy to” –

_No harm in trying_.

Esca bends down, unstrapping the knife from his shin. He sets it on the table. Everyone stares.

“A _knife_?” Sassticca hisses in disbelief. “You brought a _knife_?”

Guern cocks his head to the side. “It makes a statement, I suppose.” 

“Yes,” Sassticca agrees waspishly, “That the Tribute who brought it is a fool.” Across the table, it looks like Aquila is fighting to contain a smile – though Esca can see nothing funny about it. He glares at Aquila, and he blinks and looks away. 

“It was my father’s,” Esca says. “If I can’t have it, then I don’t want anything else.”

“If any of the Peacekeepers had decided to do a search, and found it on you” –

“Then he would have died a little sooner than expected, that’s all,” Guern finishes for her.

Sassticca glares, then gets to her feet, picking up the knife by its handle, using her fingertips. “ _I_ will take charge of this for the moment,” she says, with freezing dignity, before drawing herself up and sweeping out of the compartment. 

Guern watches her leave, before taking a grape from his plate and chewing it thoughtfully. “I think that’s enough advice for tonight, don’t you?” he says, before he too stands and leaves.

And it is just Esca and Aquila in the compartment. Esca stares down at his own hands on the table.

“Don’t worry about Sassticca,” Aquila offers unexpectedly. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“I’m not worried about Sassticca,” Esca shoots back. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

The unspoken ‘what’s left of it,’ hangs in the air between them. A line appears between Aquila’s brows before smoothing out, and he reaches inside his pocket to pull out –

“This is mine. My token.”

It’s a small Eagle, wooden wings outstretched, cupped in Aquila’s palm, and it makes Esca’s heart jump once in his chest. Because in spite of the guileless look in Aquila’s eyes, it is a pointed choice. A _strategic_ one. How could it not be, when the great metal Eagles swoop above the Arena, occasionally dipping to the ground, chest hatch opening before the lucky Tribute to reveal a sponsor’s gift inside? Of course, sometimes the Eagles perform other, less attractive functions, but either way, Aquila’s choice of token is a servile endorsement. Esca welcomes the hot coursing of contempt that washes through his veins. It is an almost unbearable solace, to have Aquila proving Liathan’s words right, and so soon. Esca could weep with the relief of it. 

“The Capitol will like that,” he says. “You should make sure to mention it in your interview.”

Aquila looks at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, face unreadable. “My father made it,” he says, eventually. “He carved it for me before he went into the Arena. So that I’d have something to remember him by.”

Quietly, he gets to his feet, head high as he walks past Esca.


	4. Chapter 4

That night Esca sits on his strange bed and pulls the comforter around his shoulders to cover his body, like a fluffy cocoon. It’s dark outside now, though as the train moves closer to their destination the lights of the various Districts flash at him through the glass, before being swallowed once more by darkness. The journey is so smooth it feels like they are not moving at all – but really the train is swallowing up the distance so fast that entire cities are nothing more than bright blurs that flicker quickly over the floor and walls of the compartment, and then vanish. In a few hours, they will reach the Capitol. Esca stares out the window and does not draw the curtain. 

He should sleep, he knows. His eyes are heavy, and even though the events of the day circle around and around in his head – Cottia, and wooden Eagles, and hot carrot soup – he is past the point of feeling anything about any of it other than a curious detachment. Perhaps this is why, when Liathan whispers in one ear, _‘Whatever you do, don’t turn your back on Aquila,’_ and the Mayor counters by murmuring in Esca’s other ear, _‘He’s a good boy…remember that, no matter what happens_ ’ – Esca is helpless to resist when _the memory_ surfaces.

Usually, he pushes it away – too fraught with a feeling that Esca has never been able to pinpoint, occupying some nebulous space between guilt and gratitude, occasionally even straying toward bewildered resentment. But tonight, numbness allows him a kind of distance, something approximating clarity when it comes to Marcus Aquila. And – that day.

_Ordinary_. 

That’s how it had started out. Hunting – he had been hunting in the woods, as he always did…Liathan there, but in a way not, having moved further into the woods in search of larger game, while Esca had been busy setting snares for rabbits. It was a routine they had. Rather than each expending their time performing the same tasks separately, they divided the work – and the spoils, when spoils were to be had. 

When Esca heard someone crashing through the undergrowth, he had whirled around, hand coming to his hip to grab the handle of his knife. Apart from the fact that Liathan would never careen through the woods heedlessly scaring game – the noise was coming from the wrong direction. From the Meadow, rather than the wilderness. 

His heart still gave a shocked leap when Marcus Aquila came into view – pelting to a sudden stop a few feet away. _Marcus Aquila_. The Mayor’s nephew. Esca’s classmate – though they’d never exchanged more than a few words, and Esca was at a loss to explain what he might be doing here. Though Aquila himself was clearly not similarly taken aback to see him. “Esca!” he said. The relief in his voice was plain.

“What are you doing here?” Esca had said. His hand hadn’t moved from its position on his knife – but that was only due to surprise. “You’re scaring away the animals,” he added, purely to assert himself, to put himself back on steady footing. Aquila, standing here in the woods…in Esca’s special place…it didn’t feel real, or right. 

“Quick – you have to come back to the village. Now,” Aquila said instead, moving forward and grabbing hold of Esca’s wrist. Though he had to feel the sudden jerk Esca gave under his fingers as he tried to pull away, he gave no indication of it, regarding Esca with wide, burning eyes. “ _Peacekeepers._ ”

“What?” Esca said. He stilled, Aquila’s thumb against the skin of his inner arm like a brand. It didn’t make any sense – there were Peacekeepers to patrol the District, of course, but they were part of the scenery by now, as familiar as the dirt roads and the Pit. Ultimately dangerous, of course, the way any animal with sheathed claws could be…but manageable. There was no cause for the panic on Aquila’s face. 

“ _Listen_ – there’s going to be an inspection in the square…I was there when my uncle got the message.” His eyes pinned Esca’s. “There have been reports of illegal activity.”

Esca’s heart thumped. Hunting. That was what Aquila meant. It was against the law to go beyond the boundaries of District 12, the wire fence that separated the Meadow from the woods. 

Someone had informed. 

Although some of the game he and Liathan hunted made its way to the market to be traded, giving them a certain value in the community, there was always the risk that someone would turn traitor for coin, or influence…or simply because of jealousy. It was a risk so small Esca had never truly considered it. The Peacekeepers of the District usually turned a blind eye – but they couldn’t do that after having had their noses rubbed in proof of the District’s defiance. No matter how covert Esca had been. Aquila’s panic was suddenly sensible. 

“Come on, quick, Esca – before they find out you're missing,” Aquila said, pulling Esca with him as he took two steps backwards. 

Public whipping. That was the punishment for breaking the law in District 12. Esca had even seen it happen, once, a long time ago. He had been small, his father a solid presence by his side in the crowd, the crack of the whip loud in the silence and the screams of the man tied to the post curdling the air. Esca didn’t know what the man had been like before…but afterwards, he had watched him with a child’s morbid fascination. Esca remembered even now the hesitancy with which he had moved, even after his back had healed – like a broken animal.

He stopped dead suddenly, managing to yank his arm out of Aquila’s grip. “Liathan,” he said.

Aquila’s mouth opened as if he meant to object, but he closed it and nodded, once, a tense motion. “Be quick,” he said, and turned, crashing back the way he had come.

It had only taken Esca minutes to locate Liathan – though every second counted and already in his head he could imagine people lined up in the square, giving their response as the head Peacekeeper called out names…the damning silence that would follow _Esca MacCunoval_.

They raced back to the Meadow, throwing themselves on the ground and wriggling under the wire, the only words they exchanged Liathan’s decision that they should split up and follow different paths to the square. “At least that way, there’s less chance of us both being caught,” he had said, and Esca had agreed.

The streets were already empty as Esca ran along them, the quick beat of his heart in his chest the only sound he could hear – until he’d turned a corner to find two Peacekeepers…and Marcus Aquila.

Aquila had turned, perhaps catching sight of Esca out of the corner of his eye, and he said, “There he is! That’s him.”

Both Peacekeepers had locked on him, immediately striding forward, and for one odd moment, Esca had felt a surge of betrayal. But then Aquila was darting in front of them, hands held up. “I told you – we’re together.”

“And what are you doing out here?” one Peacekeeper asked, directing his words to Esca. He could make out nothing under the dark visor, but the man’s voice sounded unfamiliar. The Capitol had obviously sent reinforcements. 

“Making deliveries,” Aquila blurted out, before Esca could answer. He was a poor liar, eyes moving too quickly from one person to the next. 

“I didn’t ask you!” the Peacekeeper snapped, but the other one shrugged. “He’s the baker’s boy.” This other Peacekeeper was familiar, one of the regulars, who didn’t patrol as carefully as they should, who didn’t ask too many questions about the meat on their tables, because this was District 12, after all, and there are very few who could afford to let their principles interfere with their appetites. 

“Of course – there are so many _deliveries_ to be made _here_ ,” the first Peacekeeper sneered, gesturing around the dusty, shabby street. He did address Aquila now, with a kind of triumph, “Where were you making these deliveries to, then?”

“Victors’ Village,” Aquila said quickly – and he was a poor liar, but the lie itself was the only one possible under the circumstances. Only someone who lived in the one truly wealthy neighbourhood District 12 had could afford the luxury of delivered baked goods. Of course, only one of the twelve houses there was occupied – but Esca supposed Aquila was banking on this unfamiliar Peacekeeper not knowing that the only Victor their District had was not the sort of man to order a constant stream of baked goods.

“Victors’ Village?” the Peacekeeper repeated. The triumph hadn’t disappeared from his voice. It was stronger, if anything, and Esca knew why. Victors’ Village was on the other side of the District. 

“We went to the Meadow afterwards,” Esca said. In the Peacekeeper’s dark visor, he could see a small reflection of himself. He watched himself shrug – he could lie better than Aquila, more easily. “It’s a nice day. We didn’t know there’d be a roll call.” It was believable – scruffy as it was, the Meadow was the closest thing to a sanctioned green area District 12 had. 

“You can ask my uncle, if you’d like. Or Guern,” Aquila said. He licked his lips. It was a risk – but one that paid off, because the other Peacekeeper laughed and said, “You won’t want to do that – believe me! We should be thanking these boys – District 12’s Victor needs all the sweetening up he can get.”

Finally convinced, the first Peacekeeper growled, “Go!” pointing them on their way like recalcitrant dogs, and they walked in silence the rest of the way to the square. Though he faced forward, Esca found his eyes sliding over to the boy next to him. Aquila walked with his head down, staring at the ground ahead. He had to be aware of Esca’s sideways glances, but he never looked up. 

They exchanged no further words – they had no chance to, with the Peacekeepers only a short distance behind them. When they reached the square, they kept together, walking along the lines of silent, shuffling people – until Cottia, at the end of a row, caught hold of Esca’s hand and pulled him into place next to her. There might have been the barest hesitation in Aquila’s gait – at least, Esca thought there was, at the time…but now, years later, he is not so sure. At any rate, Aquila walked on and found a place several rows in front.

As Esca watched him, out of the corner of her mouth, Cottia said, “Is everything all right? They didn’t…” she trailed off significantly.

Esca shook his head, all the response he felt it was safe to make. Cottia’s palm was warm against his as she squeezed his fingers then let go. He could still feel the press of Aquila’s fingers around his wrist. He shifted forward slightly and to the left, though all he gained by doing this was a better view of the back of Aquila’s head and his shoulders. Esca still kept his eyes fixed on him, as the Peacekeepers called out name after name. When Esca raised his voice in response to his own name being called, Aquila had no reaction – at least, as far as Esca could discern. He only looked away from Aquila when Liathan’s name was called, and a welcome voice affirmed his presence.

It turned out that Liathan too had escaped the Peacekeepers – by slipping in the back door of an empty house, and out the front, as if he had been inside the whole time, and thus avoiding any awkward questions. “It’s a good thing we’re all too poor to bother locking our doors,” Liathan had said with a mocking smile.

There had been a few more inspections in the weeks after, more Peacekeepers patrolling the area. Esca and Liathan had stayed out of the woods for two months, until it had died down – the way they both knew it had to, eventually. 

He had never spoken about it with Aquila. It left Esca confused and shaken, and no matter how he tried to push it to the back of his mind, the memory seemed to echo and ripple between them, changing everything. Before, Aquila had been the Mayor’s nephew and Esca’s classmate, a background figure in Esca’s life…and he was still those things – but now, he was something _more_. He was a constant presence in the corners of Esca’s vision – and though Esca never meant to track him, he was suddenly always aware of where Aquila was. Sometimes he thought he could feel Aquila’s eyes studying him, too – but that might have been his imagining, because he never caught Aquila looking, and Aquila never seemed inclined to raise the subject of what had happened in the woods himself. 

“You know why that is,” Liathan said once. “He’s the one.”

“What?” Esca had asked.

“The one who let it slip about us hunting.”

“That’s stupid,” Esca said. “He came to warn us.” _Us_ , Esca said, even though Aquila had only called Esca’s name. He had no reason to worry about Esca specifically – of course he’d wanted to warn them both.

“I’m not saying he meant to do it – but…he _knew_ about us hunting, didn’t he?”

“Lots of people do.” It was unavoidable, when they traded. It was an open secret. No-one mentioned it outright, but almost everyone knew. “Anyone could have said something.”

“Might've carried a bit more weight if it came from the Mayor though. Or his nephew,” Liathan said. “Old Aquila’s in bed with the Peacekeepers anyway.” At Esca’s look, he amended irritably, “He could have let it slip, is what I’m telling you. It explains why he felt like he had to warn us, doesn’t it?”

Esca shook his head, and Liathan added, as if he couldn’t help himself, “Or maybe he _did_ mean to say it – and then got cold feet when it came to it, when he saw what was going to happen. He’s an Aquila, after all – not as if they’re known for their courage.”

“That’s not it,” Esca said.

Liathan looked at him. “Why does he stay away then – like he has something to hide? Why doesn’t he look for our thanks, or praise, if it was such a selfless gesture? I’ll tell you why – because he knows he doesn’t deserve either. Because he feels guilty.” His eyes were sharp, merciless as he said to Esca, “You explain it then - if you can.”

He couldn’t. He knew – although he _couldn’t_ know – that what Liathan was saying wasn’t true. But as for alternative explanations of Aquila’s conduct – why he should look so panicked when he was not the one at risk, why he should lie for Esca – he had none.

He _still_ has none.

And in the train compartment, on the way to the Capitol, Mayor Aquila’s words and Liathan’s begin to overlap, creating a rhythm that, while not soothing, nonetheless lulls Esca into sleep.

It is bright when he wakes – but it is not the daylight flooding the room that rouses him, but the knocking. He untangles himself from the comforter and pads to the door, sliding it open to reveal Aquila. He should have expected it, but he didn’t – and after last night, his defences are down. He feels as though a layer of skin has been removed, and he is new and pink and vulnerable in front of Aquila’s eyes. He wants to hide. Instead, he meets Aquila’s gaze as coolly as he can.

“Sassticca said to come and get you. Breakfast is ready, and we’ll be in the Capitol soon.” 

Esca nods, and there is silence. Aquila’s eyes flick up and down, and then he turns and leaves. Esca slides the door closed again. Obviously, the awkwardness from last night lingers, even though Aquila has said nothing, and (from what Esca knows of him) will continue to say nothing. 

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t.

Esca wears the same trousers and shirt to breakfast. Sassticca is vocally disapproving this time, though Esca thinks he does not look worse than Guern, who sprawls in the far corner of the compartment, and hasn’t bothered to cut his hair in years. 

“All the resources of the Capitol at your disposal, and you choose to wear _that_ ,” she says, as Esca takes a bowl and fills it with warm porridge. He pours himself a glass of something sweet-sharp and orange in colour. Aquila is staring out the window, a plate of crumbs on the table in front of him – and he doesn’t so much as blink when Esca sits down, just continues to focus on the rush of scenery. His face…while not _hard_ , is – closed off. Even though Esca would never say he _knows_ Aquila, much less understands him, the shuttered, wary expression on his face is new. New when he looks at Esca, at least.

It’s nothing. 

_Why?_ Esca thinks. _Why did you do it? Why did you lie for me? Why did you save me then?_ He will never know the answers now. He concentrates on his bowl – the porridge is creamier and sweeter than any he’s ever tasted before. He's halfway finished before he realises that Sassticca is still holding forth on his choice of outfit.

“– such a thing as cutting off your nose to spite your face. There’s already a certain _perception_ of District 12,” she says. The pointed way she avoids even looking at Guern leaves Esca in no doubt as to her meaning, though she magnanimously decides, “ – though there’s no need to go into that right now.”

No need, and no use, Esca surmises. Guern the Taciturn – with his beard and his long, uncombed hair, and his shabby, austere clothes – is a long-lost cause. “But I will say that the sooner the stylists get their hands on you, the better.” She smiles at Aquila, who continues to level his steady gaze at the glass, and the tartness in her tone softens as she says, “I’ve got some very good news on that front, though.” She moves to sit in the seat beside him. “It’s Caius." 

Abruptly, the car goes dark, the whizzing scenery replaced with a wall of utter darkness. At the same instant, the lights inside the carriage switch on, and for one startled second, Esca and Aquila’s eyes meet in the reflection of the glass. 

“Almost there now,” Guern comments. Of course – the long tunnel through the mountains. And then – the Capitol.

Sassticca continues speaking. Of course, this journey is second nature to her now. “Caius is - he’s a marvel. One of the best stylists the Games has ever had. If anyone can make the people of the Capitol sit up and take notice, it’s him. You’re both very lucky to get him.”

“Yes. Lucky that after the last Games, the Capitol decided he was past his prime, and no longer fit to be paired with the better Districts,” Guern says. 

Sassticca spins in her seat. “Must you be so” –

“Honest?” Guern guesses.

“ _Negative_.” The train is slowing, but Sassticca doesn’t seem to realise. Or maybe she does, because her voice gets louder and higher, as if she can’t keep her frustration in any longer. She catches Esca’s eye, and tells him, “You’re not in District 12 anymore, you know. This is _nothing_ like District 12. And you should – you need to _listen_ , and-and do as you’re told, if you want to stand any chance at all!”

Aquila reaches out and lays his hand over hers on the table, stilling her voice. He smiles, small and calm. _Kind_ , Esca thinks, before he can help himself. “We will,” he promises.

Natural light fills the compartment again, and Sassticca closes her eyes for a moment, before straightening up, in possession of herself again. “Good,” she says. “Because we’ll be at the station in a minute. Remember to stand straight – and whatever you do, keep smiling.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this thinking both how much I wanted to read a Hunger Games AU with Marcus and Esca, and also, how funny it would be to read because, in addition to being Uncle Aquila, Donald Sutherland plays President Snow in the Hunger Games movies. But when I was plotting this thing out, I couldn't make him work in my mind - I just associate him too much with Katniss' story. Ugh, we're getting into OC territory, but...The Eagle is not exactly bursting at the seams with secondary characters, so...
> 
> This is basically a longwinded way of saying, "I hope no-one's too invested in President Snow..."

In spite of Sassticca’s stirring words, Esca can do nothing but scowl when he meets his stylist. It is difficult to feign an interest in pleasantries when one is standing stark naked in the Remake Center, while being assessed from all angles by a complete stranger. Not that the famous Caius appears to notice, as he circles Esca, all the while making a thoughtful clicking noise with his tongue. He has not looked at Esca’s face once. 

Esca stays very still and resists the urge to shift from foot to foot. He holds his hands loose at his sides. He cannot hide his irritation, but he refuses to show his discomfort. He is learning that it is not enough to be carelessly sentenced to death for the sake of entertainment – no, the Capitol’s ownership of his body must be stressed along every torturous step of the way. Tonight is the opening ceremony to welcome the Tributes. Esca will only be one of twenty four painted puppets, dressed up and paraded for the Capitol’s pleasure. 

And Sassticca expects him to _smile_.

“You’re well enough proportioned,” his stylist decides eventually. “Not as impressive as the other one, but not bad. Not bad at all.”

He sniffs, and finally deigns to look up. Caius must be one of the older stylists in the Games – maybe even the oldest, Esca thinks. His eyes are a bright, sharp blue in a face that has gone soft at the edges. His hair is white. 

“Well?” he asks, at Esca’s close scrutiny. Esca says nothing, but deliberately flicks his eyes up and down. See how he cares for it. 

He does not appear to mind, only asking in a dry tone, “Have you finished?” after a few moments. His eyebrows, also white, have risen slightly. “What’s your name?”

“Does it matter?” Esca counters.

“I don’t know,” Caius says, quite equably. “Does it?”

“Esca,” he admits, feeling as if he has stumbled, somewhere. 

“Well, Esca – shall we eat?” Caius snaps his fingers, irritation abruptly settling onto his face. Esca thinks it is meant for him until the golden-tattooed girl who had bathed and scrubbed him earlier hands him a robe. 

“Can’t do a thing without instruction – none of them can,” Caius says, as Esca follows him into the adjoining room, where food has already been laid out. “Quite useless. District 12’s team always is.”

“Yes,” Esca agrees. “You are.”

Caius twists his head around, but Esca keeps his face as clear as he can make it. “Hm,” Caius says. He presses a button on the wall as he passes, and music streams into the room, a loud wailing of strings.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Caius says, twirling the button so that the volume swells even louder. “I so enjoy a little music to go with a meal. Though I am a trifle deaf – I keep meaning to do something about that, but,” he throws his hands up, “I never seem to have enough time.”

Esca can almost feel the music in his teeth, so Caius is more than a ‘trifle’ deaf, but he makes no comment. 

The meal is excellent – delicate little pastry cases with a dollop of something rich and creamy in the middle – it melts in Esca’s mouth. Caius seems similarly satisfied. They eat without speaking until only one tiny pastry remains.

“Do you know what this dish is?” Caius enquires, and Esca finds to his surprise that by this time his ears have adjusted to the volume of the scraping strings, and he can hear Caius almost without straining. “Have you ever tried it before?”

Esca looks at him. “No.”

“It’s a kind of pate,” he says. “It’s made from birds’ livers. When the bird dies, its liver is minced up to make a delicious paste.” His bright eyes watch Esca, as he says, conversationally. “They force the creature to eat – they push food down its throat and it eats and eats until its liver swells and grows large. Then they kill it.” He picks up the last pastry case between one square finger and thumb. “Birds are such stupid creatures.” He holds it out to Esca, “Do you want the last one?”

Esca shakes his head, suddenly sickened. With a shrug, Caius pops it into his mouth and chews, with every sign of enjoyment. He licks his fingers afterwards. 

“Now,” he says, turning back to Esca, “As to tonight…” He frowns, and catches Esca’s chin in his other hand, tilting his face first to one side, then to the other, “The challenge will be – as it always is – to toe that indefinable line between spectacle and vulgarity.”

Esca wonders where that line is in the Arena. He imagines it might be hard to see it, with all the blood.

“There’s much to be said for restraint – but we do want to give the people something worth looking at, especially this year.”

“Why this year?” Esca asks, without much interest, though his ears prick up when Caius says, offhandedly, “The execution, of course.”

“Execution?”

Caius’ eyes catch his for a dizzyingly quick second, before he’s examining Esca’s newly trimmed fingernails. In the same disinterested tone, he muses, “Ah yes – I always forget how very _behind_ the Districts are when it comes to news.”

Behind? Esca almost snorts. Try completely in the dark. District 12 is given only orders, never information. Information is – dangerous. But of course, there is no possible danger greater than the one Esca is in right now, so he asks, “Who was executed?”

“The President’s son-in-law,” Caius says. “It’s cast quite a shadow over proceedings the last few months, I don’t mind saying. Such upheaval! Of course he was so involved in everything, behind the scenes…so that was only to be expected.”

Caius reaches out, square fingers touching the tips of Esca’s hair. Esca squints at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In my day, it was considered good manners to make conversation,” Caius says in response. Esca frowns at him, but Caius seems not to notice, somehow managing to hum along with the music, though it has no discernible melody as far as Esca can tell. His stylist is old, he thinks, maybe going soft in the head, the sort who just might gossip away heedlessly to a Tribute. 

Still…he’d turned on the music first, though, Esca remembers, so perhaps he is not as soft-headed as all that. If there are cameras, and Esca supposes there must be, he and Caius will only seem absorbed in a discussion about tonight’s opening ceremony. He sticks out his leg for Caius to examine, when Caius taps his knee.

“Why?” Esca asks, clarifying at the blue flash of Caius’ eyes, “Why did the President execute him?”

“There,” Caius says. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? A little conversational give and take, that’s all we need.” Then, “Treason, of course. Now stand up, feet apart, let’s see…”

As he pushes himself to his feet, the better to circle Esca once more, he says, “He was very popular, the President’s son-in-law. Funny how often the well-liked turn out to be traitors.” He claps his hands together, “Now – for tonight…my idea for you is simple – but done correctly it will have an undeniable elegance and power…”

A few hours later and Esca is grimly striding across the bottom level of the Remake Centre, toward the two-wheeled chariot singled out for District 12. It is the first time all the Tributes are in the same area, even if they are all busily preparing for their debut on the streets of the Capitol. Still, he does not even try to look at the Tributes being loaded into the chariots ahead – he tries to project only pure, uncaring disdain. It was hard enough to do while standing naked under the scrutiny of one man – it is almost impossible now that Caius has decided that he is to be paraded in front of the Capitol citizens in almost the same state.

“District 12 will be a piece of sculpture in human form,” Caius had said. “Bodies transformed into living marble – drawing attention with their austere, unadorned simplicity…”

Upon the revelation of how _very_ unadorned their simplicity was to be, Esca had crossed his arms and refused, unmoving as the statue he was meant to imitate, until finally, a small piece of white cloth was wrapped around his hips. “Though,” Caius said, with ill-concealed petulance, “It _ruins_ the clean lines of the body. What’s the use of all this modesty? It’s _most_ old fashioned. And Albina will have to add the same ugly thing for your partner, for you must match.”

From this fight, Esca knows how much worse it could be, as he forces his shoulders back and walks to District 12’s place. It is still almost unbelievably bad. 

Guern’s lips barely twitch as he takes Esca in. “Well – I suppose you’re showing them you’ve got nothing to hide,” is all he says. Esca thinks some of the Tributes in the closer chariots are craning to look, though he ignores them. Sassticca seems at a loss for words, as she takes him in – his body painted and highlighted to a gleaming white. Even his hair is stiff and looks as though it has been carved instead of growing from his head. 

“It’s very – artistic,” she says finally.

District 12’s chariot is white, as are the two horses that pull it - Esca can see that it will be eye-catching, as Caius said, when they ride out into the streets. In front of the crowds. Without even the simple armour of clothing. Esca fights down the swirling feeling in his stomach that wants to resolve into panic, and strokes the muzzle of one of the white horses instead. He will not be cowed before he even makes it to the Arena. What are those people to him? Nothing. Let them look at him and think what they will – he will not care. He _will not_.

“Ah – finally!” Caius says, and Esca turns to find the gold-tattooed girl – Albina…and Aquila, shining marble-white beside her.

“I was beginning to think you were never coming – for goodness sakes girl, you’ll have to learn how to…”

Caius’ scolding words fade away as Esca stares at Aquila, and all he can feel is a fevered relief. Horribly vulnerable as it is to be nearly naked for the procession, it would be _unbearable_ to be completely naked _alongside Aquila_.

Who clearly feels the same. His shoulders are hunched and tense, as though he wishes to crawl inside himself. It’s funny, because Aquila is tall and broad, with a physique far better suited to being captured in marble than Esca’s scrawny frame. It should give him some relief to know that he will be the less ridiculous of the two of them, but he looks incredibly ill at ease, blinking at Esca before hurriedly looking away.

“Oh, _Marcus_ ,” Sassticca says, coming to stand next to him, like a shield. “You look – that is…” Her hands flutter as though she means to touch his shoulder or arm, but she thinks better of it. “Well,” she says finally with desperate, hollow cheer, obviously searching for an appropriate compliment in spite of her own discomfort, “You’re - certainly growing into a fine young man.”

This only serves to make Aquila’s shoulders hunch up further. 

“Now,” Caius says, glancing ahead – the District 11 Tributes have already been loaded into their chariot, the outside of which is decorated with twisting grape vines. “Hop up – you’ll be off in a moment. Stand up tall and look straight ahead – try not to move if you can…it will add to the illusion. And if your nose itches, wait until you’re in the Tribute Center to scratch!”

Guern holds out a hand, and Esca steps up onto the chariot, followed by Marcus, who, in spite of Caius’ hissed instructions, remains the most embarrassed looking statue ever to have been sculpted. 

And then, the Tributes ahead of them are moving – and so too are they, trotting out from the Remake Centre and out onto the streets. There’s a sudden roaring in his ears, and it takes Esca a moment to realise that it is coming from the crowd. They are pressed right up against the barriers, a thick, faceless mass, shrieking and cheering and shouting. The noise makes Esca flinch back at first, but almost immediately he throws back his shoulders and tips his chin up. He’s a statue, stone, unmoving. A statue would not be vulnerable in front of the Capitol. 

The enormous screens that line the sides of the street capture them, the Tributes of District 12, made large for those at the back of the crowd. There is nowhere to hide. Next to him, Marcus’ fingers grip the front of their chariot. His knuckles are probably white with tension underneath their pale paint, and before Esca can think better of it, he says, “Pull your head up.” If Esca can manage it, Aquila, who looks like a Tribute from a better District, certainly can. “It’s the Capitol – everyone here has probably worn worse, and looked stupider. You can at least _pretend_ to have confidence.”

“Is that how _you_ manage it?” Aquila sounds curious, but Esca doesn’t reply. It was probably foolish of him to speak at all – he had done it without even considering. It was only that it was oddly distressing to see Aquila, for all his tallness and solidity, so defenceless – wearing his insides for all to see. Stupid, Esca chides himself. 

But as they move onto the next street, Aquila takes a breath and stands straight. Esca sees him from the corner of his eye and he looks – better. Esca himself concentrates on remaining as still as the statue Caius wants him to resemble…not for any artistic reasons, but because it gives him a good reason to ignore the people. All the other Tributes in the crowd are waving, already courting sponsorship.

It’s only a short ride to the City Circle – no more than twenty minutes at most…though it feels longer. But as they round the final corner, Esca can feel Aquila looking at him, and it distracts him enough that he turns his head. “What?”

Aquila looks startled. “It’s nothing,” he says immediately. “I was just thinking,” his face seems both familiar and different, covered in white – like he is a stranger, and yet not. It is disconcerting. His eyes roam Esca’s face, as though he has the same thoughts. “If they put an oven in the Arena, I could bake rock cakes, and throw them at the other Tributes.”

The game masters often leave weapons in the Arena – but the idea that they might play to Aquila’s strengths by placing a _baker’s oven_ in some out of the way corner, and that Aquila could win the Games simply by producing the charred lumps that at home Cottia had pronounced only fit for Pearl…

…the ridiculousness of it is pure and charming, and Esca is helpless against it. He laughs, fierce and whole-hearted. The screens capture it, which adds a touch of disorientation as Esca looks up, glimpsing himself as he turns from a statue into a boy again. The crowd roars in response. Aquila grins back, a little surprised, but pleased looking.

Finally, they draw to a stop in front of the Training Center, where they are to be addressed by the President, who is standing ready on the raised stage.

Valerius Corvus is not an especially tall man – but he draws the eye nonetheless. Part of it, Esca acknowledges, is the fact that he is President, after all. A title such as that demands attention. Part of it, though, is his own appearance. Small as he is, and tending toward stoutness, he ought not to be a prepossessing figure – but instead he looks bursting with health and vitality. It almost shines from the top of his bald head. 

By his shoulder is a woman with long blonde hair, whose smile is practised and never wavers for a moment. On his other side, Valerius Corvus holds the hand of a young girl with elaborately braided dark hair. In contrast to the woman, she looks solemn. The family of the executed man, Esca surmises, realising almost with a start that that means they must be Corvus’ daughter and grand-daughter. 

Corvus smiles and begins the official welcome. It is the same speech he gives every year, a thing that manages to be maddening in its very insipidity – as though the President is wishing them luck in a flower arranging contest instead of a battle to the death. Esca tries not to listen.

The girl whose hand Corvus holds seems likewise distracted, raising her lowered head from time to time to steal glances at the Tributes, lined up in their chariots in front of the stage. She seems shy, as though she might be reprimanded for such a thing, and when Esca stares back at her, she hurriedly looks down again. 

The sky is darkening, and the torches have been lit. The screens continue to flash pictures to the crowd – the President, the Tributes, occasionally a shot of the spectators, pressed close and tight together.

As the speech finally draws to a close, and Esca begins to shift unobtrusively on his feet – he is beginning to tire of standing – the grand-daughter lifts her head once more, and looks directly at chariot 12.

No, Esca realises, not at their chariot, and not at him. At _Aquila_. He turns his head at the exact moment that Aquila seems to realise this too. He looks surprised for a moment, caught off guard, before he smiles.

She smiles back, before looking down and away. It is only a moment – perhaps it is not even a true smile, and only a reflexive action…but it is immediately caught and blown up larger than life onto every screen. Esca is not sure, but he thinks the ceaseless buzz of the crowd becomes slightly louder. And for the last few moments before the chariots pull away from the stage and inside the Training Center, the cameras continue to linger on the grand-daughter. The torch-light flickers over her face, and makes her look as if she is blushing, even though she might not be.

“Well, you certainly aim high,” Guern says, voice dry, as Aquila and Esca descend from their chariot. Aquila looks blankly at him, as though he does not know what he means. “Her name is Seppia, by the way. The President’s grand-daughter?”

“Oh,” Aquila says, seeming a little embarrassed, but still mostly nonplussed, “That was – I only smiled at her. She looked at me, and” – his hands work at his sides, “– it just seemed…I didn’t even think about it.”

“It was perfect!” Sassticca reassures him, grasping his wrist. “ _Perfect_! That girl hasn’t smiled in months, not since” – she comes to an abrupt stop, and Esca mentally fills in ‘since her father was executed for treason’. Awkwardly, Sassticca continues, “well, that’s not important now…but what _is_ important, is that _you_ were the one to bring a smile to her face. _You_. The Tribute from District 12.” She shakes her head. “Everyone will have such goodwill toward you now! You managed everything _wonderfully_. It couldn’t have gone better!”

She beams at Aquila as Caius mutters something about the President’s grand-daughter being drawn by his fine craftsmanship, and how _usually_ day, it was considered the done thing for Tributes to thank their stylists for helping them to make an impression. Aquila seems dazed, but almost obstinate as he shakes his head, and insists, “It wasn’t – I didn’t…it was just a smile. You make it sound like some grand strategy.”

He catches Esca’s eye – Esca almost thinks he is appealing for support. And, of course, Esca does not think that Aquila can have deliberately set out to win the favour of the President’s grand-daughter. How could he? He does not even know the girl. 

And it was just a smile, when all’s said and done. Hardly a shield against the swords and traps of the Arena. 

Still, in his mind, Esca can see the moment, small and inconsequential, blown up large and meaningful on the Capitol screens – like the beginning of a fairytale. And irrationally, he wants, with a fierceness that feels like anger, to go back in time to force himself to stare ahead, stone-faced for the duration of the chariot ride.

He looks away. He wishes he had never smiled at Aquila, either.


End file.
